


Something Evergreen

by apliddell



Series: Your Many Tendencies [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accepting Parents, Black John Watson, Black Sherlock Holmes, Black lesbian johnlock, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Johnlock, F/F, Femlock, John Watson's past, John is a You-Tuber, Johnlock - Freeform, Lesbian Johnlock, Lesbian Sherlock Holmes, Loving Parents, Nonbinary Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes' past, Sherlock comes out, Sherlock's Violin, Sickfic, Tree Trimming, lesbian john watson, supportive parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 15:31:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17062391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: John and Sherlock's relationship deepens as they celebrate their first Christmas together.





	1. Chapter 1

“Best zip up, love. It’s a cold night.” 

 

I paused with my hand on the door of St. Kate’s charity shop and looked round for the source of this rather booming unsolicited advice. A couple yards away stood a busker with a violin dressed as Father Christmas. His dark face was mostly obscured with his red toque, fluffy white false whiskers, and curly silver wig, but he seemed to wink at me from behind his gold-rimmed spectacles when we caught eyes. 

 

“Fuck off, Santa.” 

 

“Physician, heal thyself,” he laughed and began a rendition of  _ I’ve Got My Love To Keep Me Warm _ . I rolled my eyes and pushed into the shop. I could still hear the music inside. It was quite good, actually. 

 

Father Christmas was still outside the shop when I left it a quarter of an hour later. 

 

He seemed to be feeling slightly more polite when I passed him again, “Spare a quid, miss? To benefit the hospital.” He nudged his open violin case with the toe of his heavy black boot. 

 

“Sorry, haven’t got any change,” I muttered without looking up. 

 

“Liar! You got some in the shop, didn’t you?” said Santa brightly in a muffled but familiar voice, quite different from how he’d spoken before. I stopped where I was, then turned and looked back. “Don’t say my name,” whispered Santa as I thrilled with recognition at last. “Walk up one block and over three,” with a jerk of the gloved thumb to indicate direction. “Green house, black gate, gold house numbers. Number one fifty-seven. I’ll meet you there. Don’t answer; just go.” 

 

I walked along as instructed, prickling with anticipation and trying not to look round. When I turned onto the final street, I saw Santa coming toward me from the opposite end of the road. We met at the green house with the black gate, and to my surprise, Santa reached down one trouser leg and pulled out a jimmy, then popped open the gate and pulled me inside. 

 

Once the gate was shut behind us, Santa peeled off the false whiskers and the hat and wig and grinned down at me, recognisable again as my very own Sherlock Holmes, “Fancy seeing you here. What do you think of my specs, John?” Sherlock leaned down for a kiss. 

 

I kissed her, “...mmm, I think it looks stupid to wear them when you don’t need them to see. Sherlock, whose house in this? Why are we hiding?” 

 

“Oh, I was just doing a little surveilling for a case, and there’s a bloke in that neighborhood who. Well specifics are unimportant, but he did say he planned to bash my head in last time I saw him. When I saw you, I reckoned it’d be nice to go home together, but I didn’t want anyone to see me with you down that way, just in case.” Sherlock kissed me again, “This was before you worked there, by the way. He owns the most revolting frilly little tea shop just near there, ergh. The tea's absolute piss, too. Money laundering,” she added in a whisper. “Just give me a mo to get out of these, and-”

 

“Hang on, have you just broken the lock on some random person’s gate? No, you can’t have, because you described the house you wanted to meet me at. Whose house is this, Sherlock? Is this a case?”

 

We both started as the front door swung open behind us, and someone came trotting down the steps. A tall and stately older someone, with a dark green coat pulled on over grey flannel pyjamas and heavy leather slippers, “Will you stop breaking my gate, child! Come in and get warm before you go dashing off again. And introduce your old mum to this beautiful person you’ve brought with you.” The someone--evidently Sherlock’s mother!-- came to a stop between us and put an arm about Sherlock’s shoulders. 

 

“Mum!” Sherlock still looked very startled. “What are you doing here?”

 

Sherlock’s mum laughed and kissed her on the cheek, “I live here, or have you forgotten and that’s why you don’t visit?” 

 

“You’re meant to be on sabbatical; I thought you were abroad til the new year.” 

 

“I  _ am _ on sabbatical, and you need to listen to your voicemails. I’ve been back a week, and I left you a message before I came home.” Sherlock’s mum looked at me, “If I didn’t know better, I might suspect she doesn’t want us to meet.” 

 

Sherlock looked guilty, “Mum, this is Doctor John Watson. John, my mother Viola Holmes.” 

 

“Lovely to meet you, Ms. Holmes.” I said offering my hand to shake.

 

Viola shook my hand, then turned and led the way toward the house, “Pleasure to meet you, Doctor Watson. Sherlock, you’re bringing a doctor along on your cases, now? That’s wise of you. Safety first.” 

 

Sherlock glanced at me sort of helplessly as we stepped into the house behind her mother, “Well I didn’t bring her along but yes, and also. We’re. We’ve been going out for about a month.” 

 

“Please call me John,” I added, reaching for Sherlock’s hand.

 

Viola’s eyes sparkled as she shut the door behind us, “Thank you, John, I will. Please call me Viola. I hope you’ll stay for tea. Sherlock darling, may I take your beard?”

 

Sherlock wadded up the beard and wig and stuffed them into the Santa toque, which she handed to Viola along with her violin case, “Have you learnt to cook, Mum? Was it while you were abroad?”   
  


Viola stowed the lot in a coat cupboard near the entryway, “While you’re taking that tone, young lady, you might remind yourself who kept you fed the twenty years you lived under my roof.” 

 

“Young lady?” Sherlock said in a reminding sort of way. 

 

“Smart arse, then,” Viola corrected herself. 

 

I looked at Sherlock, “Smart arse is better than young lady?”

 

Sherlock shrugged, “I mislaid my gender in the nineties, but I don’t miss it.” 

 

“Oh. Like Hudson.” 

 

Sherlock smiled and squeezed my hand, “Yep.”

 

I brought my other hand to my mouth, suddenly horrified, “But I’ve been calling you ‘she’ this whole time, nearly a year! Sherlock, I’m sorry!” 

 

Sherlock squeezed again, “Don’t be. She is correct. But thank you,” she kissed my cheek. 

 

“I like you; I’m so glad I’ve asked you to tea,” Viola declared. “May I take your coat and hat, John?”

 

“Thank you,” I handed them over, and when they were hung in the cupboard side by side with Sherlock's things, Sherlock and I followed Viola into the kitchen. 

 

Viola surveyed her fridge, then her cabinets, “Hmm. Egg in hole. And it’ll be a not really tea.”

 

I looked at Sherlock, “A not really tea?”

 

“It’s one you forget about afterwards,” Sherlock said, going to the sink for a wash. I had one also and made myself useful by starting the kettle.

 

“So then, John,” Viola called to me as she melted butter in a pan. “Tell me about yourself. You’re a doctor?”

 

“Yes, I work down the road at St. Kate’s. I’m surprised it’s never come up that this is your neighbourhood,” with a raised eyebrow in Sherlock’s direction. 

 

“It has come up,” Sherlock said, picking at the fluffy cuff of her Santa jacket. “It came up today.” 

 

“Sherlock is a very mysterious person,” said Viola cheerfully, arranging slices of bread in her sizzling pan. “I don’t think she even means to be especially mysterious. It’s just her way.” 

 

Sherlock sighed and fiddled with the end of one of her locs that had come down from the knot she’d put them in, “I’m in the room, Mama.” 

 

I put down the kettle and sidled nearer to Sherlock to see if she might want to hold my hand, and she linked arms with me, “I think we usually understand each other.” 

 

“Ah good!” Viola cracked an egg on the lip of her pan, “That goes such a long way. Speaking the same language, as it were.” 

 

I petted Sherlock’s arm, “I agree. It really has.” 

 

Sherlock dipped suddenly to kiss my poof and made me laugh. Viola turned away from her pan to smile at us, “Now that we’re all in the same country and so nicely getting acquainted, this is probably the moment to invite you back for the Christmas party? Well, Christmas Eve. You’re welcome in the interim also, of course. Only phone ahead because otherwise if you turn up while I’m writing, the mantraps’ll get you.” 

 

“My mother has the misfortune of thinking she’s funny,” Sherlock whispered loudly. 

 

“A family trait,” said Viola lightly. 

 

“Are you a writer?” I asked. 

 

“Yes! Well mainly I’m a poetry and literature professor, but this is part of it.”

 

“Oh, so that’s where Sherlock gets it all!” 

 

“Perhaps not all,” Sherlock interjected. “A fair amount.” 

 

Viola came over to give Sherlock a hug and a kiss, “You will think about Christmas, won’t you?”

 

Sherlock put her arm about Viola’s shoulders, “I doubt we’ll think of anything else.” 

 

“Will you bring your violin back and favour us with a tune?”

 

“I could be persuaded. What should I be practising til then?”

 

Viola cocked her head on one side and patted Sherlock’s back, “I think you’re already practiced in all my favourites, darling.” She looked at me, “Do you have any favourites, John?”

 

“Oh. Er hmm, I haven’t done much in the way of Christmas for a bit, actually. I must think on that.” 

 

Sherlock looked at me curiously in that deducing way she has sometimes, “Think it over, John. Do.” 

  
  


…

  
  


After our not really tea and two firm no thank yous to Mum’s offer to get us a cab, John and I are off to the bus stop and soon lumbering back toward Baker Street. John dozes on my shoulder, her fingers laced in mine. She squeezes my hand gently every few minutes as if to insist she is properly awake. 

 

“I think I love your mum,” John murmurs presently into my muffler. “Hope that’s all right.”

 

Smile, “She’ll be delighted.”

 

John strokes my knee, “Mmm, she’s charming, like you.” 

 

I’m charming?! “She charms.” 

 

John laughs, then looks serious, “She’s not like. She’s nice, right? Was she nice when you were a kid? She’s not secretly awful or formerly awful, is she?”

 

“Nah, she actually is lovely. Just. Really enthusiastic.” 

 

“So she is like you,” John’s concerned expression relaxes into a smile. “That’s good. You deserve a lovely mum.”

 

“Thanks.” Kiss the top of John’s head, and she kisses my hand, and I have to turn and rest my head against the vibrating sill of the bus window for a moment to cope. “Sorry to have put you on the spot a bit. Earlier.”

 

“Hmm?” John’s already begun to drop off again. 

 

“We never really talked about how we’d spend Christmas, so if you’d rather see your sister or erm.” John doesn’t talk about her parents; they have no discernible presence in her life. Not an anecdote, not a photograph, not a hand me down jumper. “You don’t have to spend it with me. I know it’s a bit erm. Soon. I suppose I don’t even know if you. Do you do. Er. Christmas?”

 

John doesn’t shift or answer for a moment, and I wonder if she’s drowsing again, “Well. Last year Christmas, I sort of. Thought I might die. My shoulder’d been torn up in the. Erm. So I was in a sort of. Morphine haze most of the time. And then I got pneumonia. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I really. I thought I’d die.” Dig my nails into my palm to steady myself, but I shudder anyway, and John squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back harder, and we’re both quiet. “Sorry,” John says quietly. “I didn’t need to say all that.”

 

“You can tell me anything you want to,” my voice comes out rather hoarse and sounds almost a bit fierce. 

 

John squeezes my hand again, “I think what I meant to say is that I didn’t do much of Christmas stuff while I was abroad. And before I went away, I was a student and had no money, and didn’t really do anything then either. So! No real traditions to break. I’d love to have Christmas with you and your mum. A Holmes Christmas. What’s that like?”

 

Typical things, I want to say. Feels inappropriate somehow. “Stockings, music. Shocking amounts of roast potatoes. Mum attempts trifle. And there’re always sort of odds and ends type people. ‘S’how I met Hudson, actually. One of Mum’s little feasts.” 

 

John beams, “That sounds wonderful. Very wholesome.”

 

Snort, “Yeah, wholesome. Exactly. Wholesome Holmes.”

 

John laughs a happy anticipation sort of laugh, "I think I could do with a bit more of that." 

Sometime I shall have to find how to tell John how delicious it always is to give her anything she wants. Kiss her cheek, "Good then. It's settled."


	2. Chapter 2

A few days after our visit to my mum, John comes in rather late getting home from work, looking pleased and with a noticeable bulge about her left coat pocket. Been doing a bit of Christmas shopping then. The idea makes my ears go warm, which is silly. To distract myself, I get up from my chair for a hello kiss. We do that now!  

 

“Hello, petal,” John hangs her coat carefully before turning into the kiss. “Did you miss me?”

 

“Lots.”

 

“Warm me up, then.” 

 

Kiss all over John’s face and she smiles under the attention. “Ooh, you really are cold,” rub John’s arms through her jumper and wiggle my fingers at the sensation of static building between us. 

 

“It’s quite cold out there. I found a hole in one of my gloves today.”

 

“Miserable object.”

 

“Yes,” John agrees. “But anyway, guess what I’ve got.”

 

“Guess?” Look at the bulge in her coat pockets. “Can I just have a look?”

 

“All right then,” John tugs a little parcel out of her pocket, and it turns out to be a slightly damp paper bag. “I found them at Eden. Ready to guess now?”

 

“Can I touch the bag?”

 

John smiles and holds it out to me. It’s heavier than I expected. Raise it to my face for a sniff, “Satsumas!”

 

John grins and nods, “I love these.” She loops her arm through mine, “Come and sit with me?”

 

I follow John into the sitting room and flop after her onto the sofa. She takes a satsuma out of the bag, and peels off the rind in one long, curly piece. 

 

Make a low whistle, “They teach you that in medical training?”

 

John laughs and splits the satsuma in half in her hands, “You’re not talking like a person interested in being fed satsumas.” 

 

“Oh, but I am though!” squirm at the idea and lay my torso in John’s lap, and she brings a small, plump segment of fruit to my lips. Take it delicately in my mouth, and it’s sweet and bright and delicious. “It was wrong of me to tease you about your fruit skills, John. You have an admirable way with a satsuma.” 

 

“Practise makes perfect,” John taps the tip of one sticky finger against my nose and snatches her hand back when I raise my chin to snap my teeth at it. “Settle down, baby bird,” John presses another segment to my lips, but she lets me catch her fingers this time, and they’re nearly as sweet and sticky as the fruit. 

 

“These are perfect, John. You’ve found the ideal satsumas.” 

 

“I was feeling holly jolly,” says John airily. “And!” She pats her pockets til she finds a sprig of mistletoe, which she tucks into the turnup of her cap. 

 

Kiss her, “Irresistible. The holly jolliest.” 

 

John hums against my mouth, strokes my jaw, my neck. John kisses me sometimes like she’s kissing me for the first time. Arresting. 

 

“Well,” John’s eyes are bright when she draws back and her lip is shining from its contact with mine. “Is it too cold for a few minutes of stargazing? Shall we pop up and have a look?”

 

...

 

“I’m getting cold, petal-” I paused for a giggle when Sherlock spread her blanket wings wide and wrapped me up in them, holding me against her chest. In fairness it was quite warm there. “I mean, have you had enough of stargazing yet? Shall we go in and get warm?” I bobbed my head toward Sherlock’s bedroom window, still standing ajar behind her. 

 

Sherlock tightened her arms about me, “If you like.” 

 

We didn’t move. 

 

“I suppose  _ you’re _ not cold,” I was a little muffled by Sherlock’s chest, but she heard me all right. 

 

“I think my hair traps heat,” Sherlock kissed my hair. “Yours couldn’t really trap anything. Maybe a pencil.”

 

I snorted, “Thanks. Shall we go in, though?” I steered her gently toward her window. “Really, I’m cold.”

 

“Yes, fine, but yours is definitely cosiest,” Sherlock said, resisting my steering. 

 

“Mine is? How do you reckon?”

 

“You remembered to shut your bedroom window, whereas I threw myself out of mine and forgot I even had a bedroom in my eagerness to stargaze with you, John.”

 

I raised my chin for a kiss, “Very romantic of you.”

 

Sherlock kissed me, “Your doing. About face, and let’s go in.”

 

I began untangling myself from the blankets, “My doing? I don’t think so. You were already romantic when I met you.”

 

I opened my window, and Sherlock followed me through it, “I have it on good authority that I’d not a romantic bone in my body before you, John.”

 

“Good authority? Better than mine?”

 

“Good point.” Sherlock kissed me, “I doubt that exists.” She wrapped me up in her blanket wings again and shuffled us toward my bed, “Anyway let’s not argue. It isn’t warming.” 

 

“Oh no, not at all warming” I fell backward onto my bed, tugging Sherlock along beside me, “I’m sure we can think of much warmer things to do, can’t we, petal?”

 

“Mmm!” Sherlock was already eyeing some of my warmer bits, “I’m sure we can!” 

 

...

  
  


“That one?” John points at a fine, tall Nordmann fir. 

 

“Hmm,” circle the tree critically. “No.” 

 

John laughs ruefully, “Well what’s wrong with it?”

 

“It’s too tall. I want something bushier. Squatter. Short and fat, John! I want a positive hobbit of a tree!” 

 

“Mmm,” John laughs again and takes my hand. “I suppose I’m lucky that’s what your tastes run to.”

 

Bend and kiss the top of her hat, and she laughs a bit more. “Oooh!”

 

“Yes?” says John expectantly. 

 

“I’ve just spotted a good one over your shoulder,” lead John up to the tree and rub one of its branches between my fingers. “Very fresh. And it smells lovely. Symmetrical and wonderfully fat. What do you think, John? Shall we take this one?”

 

“You’re the captain of this little expedition, petal. Whatever you like.”

 

Give John an objecting sort of hug, “But I want  _ you  _ to love the hobbit tree also, John!” 

 

“Well if you love it, I don’t suppose I’ll be able to help loving it as well.” 

 

Blink away a sudden winter air stingyness about the eyes, “Very generous of you, John.” 

 

John kisses my hand and gives me a knowing look, “Shall we get our little hobbit back to the flat?”

 

Prickle even more over that kiss, “Oh yes. Let get home.”

 

…

 

“I’ve got the strongest urge to have a nibble of this,” Sherlock remarked as we dressed our Christmas tree. “It smells incredible like some sort of delicious punch or a tart or something. Outstanding.”

 

I sniffed rapturously, “Mmmm yes. Deceptively inedible. You’re so crafty, petal; I’d no idea you could make ornaments out of orange peel and cinnamon.” 

 

“Mmhm, Holmes family tradition. My mum had a thing about how Christmas ornaments should be made and not bought. I think perhaps it was to keep me and Vic out of her hair during the winter hols.” 

 

I grinned, “Good old Viola and her clever ideas. I’d have thought you were a very studious child and up to your eyebrows in library books.” 

 

Sherlock hung a cinnamon heart on a delicate branch near the top, “Well  _ I _ of course was an angel and never put a toe out of line under my own steam, but Victor picked up all sorts of wild ideas at boarding school, and we got a little over excited to see each other when he was home at Christmas.”

 

“Victor your best friend from school?”

 

“Well school age, but he went to school, and I sort of didn’t. My mum taught me at home. School,” Sherlock’s mouth sagged a bit. “Did not go well for me.” 

 

Something about Sherlock’s tone made me reluctant to ask her to elaborate, “What was Victor like?”

 

“Oh, he was mad about theatre, so we’d write plays and put them on together. They were good, too! But we were always scavenging to build sets and props and make costumes and it led to erm. Pulling things to bits.” 

 

I laughed, “That sounds rather delightful, actually. You’ve always been fantastic, just as I suspected.” 

 

“I was sort of Vic’s sidekick, to be honest. But we did have fun.” 

 

I kissed her cheek, “I wish I’d known you then.” 

 

Sherlock turned and kissed me on the lips, “I’m glad you know me now. I was a bit spineless at the time, really. I doubt I’d have been particularly interesting to you.” 

 

I didn’t much care for that idea, “Oh, I was the most horrible know-it-all little swot at that age, anyway. Not really interesting to anyone. I think, well I hope. I think we’d be sensible enough to. Recognise each other. Know what I mean?”

 

Sherlock kissed me again, “That’s a good word for it. Recognise. I like that.” 

 

“You’re not going to scold me for alluding to true love at first sight?” I teased.

 

Sherlock leaned her head against mine. She was quiet so long that I started to worry she did have a scolding in the offing, “True love?”

 

“Oh,” I fidgeted with an orange peel star, rather embarrassed. “I suppose it’s a bit-”

 

“I mean I’m. Yours?” 

 

I looked up at that, and Sherlock’s expression was so soft I rather wanted to kiss her instead of answering her, “Yeah, of course you are. How could you not be? Is that. All right with you?” Sherlock nodded and sort of teetered over onto my shoulder, and I slipped an arm about her waist and patted her back. I could feel her breath on my neck, hot and a little shaky. “You did know that I’m in love with you? Sherlock? You did know?”

 

Sherlock answered moist against my neck, “Yes, you did tell me, only. We’ve not been together long. I didn’t know you felt so. Sure about me. You make me sound like some sort of fairy tale prince. Perhaps I should get a sword.” 

 

I patted her back more firmly, “Of course I’m sure about you! I’m not an idiot. And you have all the sword you need, petal.” 

 

Sherlock straightened up, “I’m sure about you also,” she said almost fiercely. Then she went off to her music corner and picked up her violin. 

 

“Thank you petal,” I called after her and went back to trimming the tree. Behind me, Sherlock began to play. Low and slow and sweet. I knew it was her own music, though I wasn’t sure if it was a composition or an improvisation. Presently I put down the ornaments and shut my eyes to let the sound of Sherlock’s violin fill me up. Sherlock can speak to me with music better than I can speak to her with words. I wish I could say how it sounded. How it felt. The nearest I can come to describing is that there was something evergreen about it. 


	3. Chapter 3

“That was brilliant,” John tells me as she unlocks the door to 221B around half past eleven the night before Christmas Eve. 

 

My smile feels oddly rusty as it creaks across my face. Am a little stiff with cold and exhaustion, “I don’t know about brilliant. Stubborn definitely.”

 

“They say genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains,” John insists, holding the door for me. 

 

“Not a very good definition,” pause to sneeze into my elbow of my coat. 

 

John helps me off with my coat, then hangs hers next to mine and tucks our scarves and hats into our coat pockets, “All right then, you’re a genius, _ and  _ you work your backside off. You won’t talk me out of being impressed, I promise you.” 

 

Smile and kiss her cheek, “You’re so good to me.” 

 

John smiles back at me, such earnest admiration in her eyes that it almost hurts to look at, “I love you.” 

 

“I love you t-” have to jerk away suddenly so that I don’t mist John in a sneeze. 

 

She strokes my back, “Ooh, that was a good one. Are you feeling all right, petal?”

 

“I think I got a bit of a chill while we were looking for Breckinridge. I need to warm up before bed. Do you think I could brew like. A bathtub sized cup of tea?” 

 

John laughs, “No, but I think you might have a cup of tea in a hot bath, if you like.” 

 

Thought of taking off all my clothes and climbing into water makes me shiver and the idea of climbing out again is worse, “Not tonight, I think. Maybe just the tea. Do you think we could have a fire? It’s freezing in here.”

 

John frowns a little, “I was just thinking it’s a bit close, but sure, let’s have a fire. Come and sit down, and I’ll do you that cup of tea.” 

 

“It’s all right, John; I can make it.” 

 

John herds me toward the sofa, “I know you can; you’re wonderfully capable. Can I, though? That’s the question. I think I need to prove myself, Sherlock. I’m not sure I quite remember what a kettle is. It’s time I re-learnt these things.” She sort of gently hipchecks me, and I laugh and sink onto the sofa. It does feel wonderful to sit. John’s got to be tired as well, but she bustles off to the kitchen without waiting for me to lodge my protests. Sigh and pull off my slushy boots, then stretch out on the sofa. Feels too good. Worry that I’ll fall asleep before John returns, so I stare at the ceiling and try and see things in the plaster. A rabbit. A star. A hedgehog. A fluffy sort of flower. 

 

Realise I’ve been dozing when I start at the sound of a sharp thump. John’s set a steaming mug on the coffee table, and she’s looking down at me with concern, “I think you’d best have this upstairs in bed.” 

 

“I think I need tea to strengthen me enough to get up the stairs, John.”

 

“A sip, then. And the rest upstairs. Want to sleep with me? You’ll get warm quicker. And you can keep that sly look, clever clogs. Absolutely no euphemisms to be had here.” 

 

John hands me my cup, and I take a drink, “I promise you I’m too sleepy to look sly, John. And I usually want to sleep with you, unless my brain is doing that hummingbird thing where it bounces all about and I know I won’t sleep.” 

 

“Hummingbird thing,” John smiles fondly. “Well, I’m ready when you are.” In answer I sit up, and John rises as well. We ascend the stairs, John ahead of me with my tea. At her threshold, she hands me my mug, then goes to my bedroom. 

 

Go into hers, set the mug down, and slouch onto the bed. It’s getting to look quite oursish in here. My library bag and laptop are propped against the wall on my side of the bed, and there’s a stack of books on the pouf I’ve been using for a night table. My hairscarf is sticking out from under my pillow, so I pull it out and take off my loc rings before tying my hair up in the scarf. 

 

John comes in through the bathroom, holding something out to me. It’s a flannel nightshirt and thick wool socks, and they’re the most inviting garments I’ve ever seen. 

 

I take them, “You’re an angel.” 

 

“You’re easily pleased,” John kisses my forehead, then turns to her dresser to find her own bedclothes. Get into the things John’s brought me and under the blankets. John gets into bed beside me and pulls me against the warm curve of her soft body. Heaven. Cling onto John, and she strokes my back. “Rest now, petal,” John murmurs. Shut my eyes and I’m tugged away in a rip-current of sleep before I can even manage to say good night. 

 

…

 

Wake with the sun on a sparkling Christmas Eve morning. Golden light spills through the gap in the curtains and plays over John’s flame coloured curls, illuminates her peacefully sleeping features. My mouth is as dry as an old sock, and my body aches all over. Possibly from shivering. I’m freezing. Huddle up to John, hoping I’m not too obtrusive, but I can’t stop shivering. Unsurprisingly she wakes after a few minutes of my chilly, shaky clinging. 

 

John smiles, “Good m-oh are you all right, Sherlock? You’re looking a bit peaky.”

 

“I'm freezing!”

 

John presses her palm to my forehead, “You’re burning up! You’ve got a fever!” 

 

Shiver under John’s cool fingers and cling tighter to her, “I really don’t think that could be it, because I’m extremely cold. So are you; your hands are like ice. Have we left a window open? Do we have hypothermia?”

 

John gently uncurls my fingers, “It feels cold to you because your body’s overheating. I’ve got to take your temperature. Give me a mo, petal and I’ll get the thermometer.” She slips out of bed and into the bathroom, then returns a moment later with a glass of water, a bottle of painkillers, and a thermometer. She sets everything except the thermometer on my pouf. 

 

John sits down on the bed next to me, “Sit up, please.” I obey and John puts the nozzle of the thermometer in my ear. It beeps softly a moment later and John clucks when she consults the readout, “Thirty-nine.” 

 

Slump forward onto her shoulder, “You win. Where will you display your trophy?”

 

John lets me lean against her for a moment and only strokes my back consolingly at first. Then she gives me a pat, “Sit up, please. I need to give you medicine and get your fever down.” 

 

I sit up and John shakes a pair of pills into my open palm, then hands me the glass of water. Swallow the pills rather wincingly and try to hand John the water back, but she shakes her head. 

 

“I’d like you to finish that, please. How’s your throat? Does it ache?”

 

Sip the water and nod, “Everything aches.”

 

“It’s probably flu. Told you you should have had your jab.”

 

“Last year it made me-”

 

John holds up a hand, “No, it didn’t! If you try and tell me again that your last year’s jab made you ill, I’ll haul your laptop in here and make you watch episode sixty-nine of  _ Doctrix _ until your eyes fall out of your head.” 

 

Glug a little more water and grimace at the burn in my throat when I swallow it, “I don’t think I’d mind. I rather fancy the Doctrix.” 

 

John laughs, “Would you like your own bed, petal? Probably the sheets are a bit fresher, since you haven’t slept in there in about a week.” 

 

Think of getting into a cold bed with crisp sheets and mentally recoil, “Can I stay here with you?”

 

“Of course you can. You might want fresh jimjams, though?” 

 

“Can I wear yours?” I didn’t quite mean to ask that, but lovely John is lovely. She kisses my sweaty forehead, then gets up and rummages in her dresser to find a loose t shirt and pyjama bottoms in a cheery red tartan. I rise from the bed somewhat unsteadily, and John helps me into the pyjamas. 

 

Once I’m comfortably situated on the bed again, John sweeps back into the bathroom and returns with a damp towel, “I’m so sorry, Sherlock; I know it’s uncomfortable, but I’ve got to get you cooled down, all right?” 

 

I nod, “Yeah, I know.” John sits next to me on the bed and dabs my face, my chest, my arms, and it’s freezing cold and hateful except for the tenderness and care under it. My eyes prickle, and I turn my head, but when the tears fall, John spots them straight away. 

 

“Are you all right, Sherlock? Is something hurting you?” 

 

Sniffle and try and brush away tears on my pillow, “This isn’t. Everything’s ruined! I was meant to bring you to my mum’s Christmas party tonight, and I was going to cook a lovely breakfast tomorrow, and. It’s just all gone pearshaped, and I really wanted to show you a good time and now you’re stuck doctoring your stupid er. Stupid sick prince, and it’s all ruined, and I’m sorry John. I didn’t mean to!” 

 

John rubs my back, “Oh Sherlock, it’s all right, really it is. All I really wanted was to be with you, anyway. You don’t need to do anything for me.” 

 

“But you  _ deserve  _ things! I hate being ill,” shift onto my belly and hide my face because the tears aren’t stopping, and I’m starting to feel silly like an overwrought child. 

 

John pets me quietly for a bit, “Sherlock. You’re a whole entire person, and that means sometimes you’re going to be unwell and need rest and need to be looked after. It’s all right. It’s part of being alive. You don’t have to be sorry or upset.” 

 

Snuffle but can’t quite bring myself to turn over. John carries on petting me. Her fingers on the back of my neck are exquisite, “Sherlock, you know I want to look after you just as much as you want to look after me. You have been since I met you, you know. Since I very first met you. And you know what?” John pauses, really waiting for me to answer. 

 

“What?” into the pillow. 

 

“You helped me see that someone could admire me and care for me at the same time. And that I’m not just. A collection of things I can do for other people or give them. I’m still me. I’m still the good parts of myself, even when I’m not strong. Know what I mean?” 

 

Intellectually, I can see that what John is saying is true. Still. It’s so much easier to accept care as an indulgent luxury and not as a necessity. Anyway have only got flu because I was too stubborn to go and get a jab and stave it off. Haven’t recently nearly died. 

 

Turn onto my side finally and look up at John, “So what did you do?” 

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“How did you. Get your head round it? Needing care?”

 

John smiles, “I started to feel better. You were so lovely and cheerful and sweet and. It didn’t feel humiliating to let you look after me. And as it turns out, erm. When I let go a bit. Let you look after me. I recovered quicker than I had been. I was less stressed and fretful. And I loved your company. I felt stronger and more hopeful and. Happy. And I’m a stubborn arse, but not stubborn enough to push away something that was working just because I thought I didn’t deserve to be well unless I could be the sole architect of my own wellness.” 

 

Turn that over in my mind, “I think you might be a genius at me, John. Genius full stop, really.” 

 

John’s sweet smile grows and she kisses my cheek, “Will you get a little more sleep for me, petal? When you wake up, you can have breakfast, and we can cheer ourselves up with presents or carols or something nice. If you like, I can ring your mum and let her know we won’t make it tonight.” 

 

My eyes do feel heavy now she mentions it, “Okay.” 

 

John squeezes my hand, “Thank you.” 

 

“John?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“Will you. I’m not ready to see you off just yet. Will you sit with me? A little longer?” 

 

John kisses my hand, “Of course I will.” 

 

...

 

“You’ll have better luck turning pages if you take off your gloves,” Sherlock rasped, shifting so that she could look up at my face without lifting her head from my knee. She’d dozed through most of the day. Around seven in the evening, when her fever had dropped a bit, she came down to sit with me and take a little supper. After we ate, we exchanged our gifts, saving one each for Christmas morning. Sherlock had given me a pair of gloves and a book of poetry. I’d given her a wool cape for widow's walk dramatics and a paper knife, which she immediately used to drive her mother’s Christmas card into the mantel. 

 

“But I love the gloves, and I love the Gibran book, and I can’t bear not to enjoy them both at once,” I told her. The gloves really were lovely. Rich, fragrant, dark brown leather with a cashmere lining. They matched my favourite jacket, and they were wonderfully warm. 

 

“Please yourself,” Sherlock kissed my knee, then nestled deeper into the cape. 

 

“If you like, you can turn my pages for me, petal.” 

 

Sherlock turned onto her side in answer and held out her hand toward my book, one finger extended to turn a page, “Standing by, John. Whenever you’re ready.” 

 

I smiled and bent to kiss the top of her head, “Go on, then.” 

 

Sherlock turned over a page, then hummed and smiled a secret sort of smile. 

 

“Yes?”

 

“Nothing,” Sherlock nibbled her bottom lip. “Just being sentimental.”

 

“Well petal, since you are my true love, and it’s Christmas Eve, I’d say conditions are perfect. Go on.” 

 

Sherlock smiled a smile that was a lot like a blush and bumped her head against my arm, “Well. Ages ago. Months ago. In the spring, when we did that case with the disappearing bride. Erm. We were talking it over and. You quoted Gibran to me,” she tapped the page. “This poem here. _On Marriage_. ‘The strings of the lute are alone, though they quiver with the same music.’ And. I’d known I liked you, but. That’s when I knew I. Loved you.” 

 

“Oh,” I blinked hard and rubbed my chest. “I. That’s. That’s so sweet, Sherlock. Thank you for telling me.” An audacious little tear fell, and Sherlock sat up to kiss it away. I put my arm about her, “I think I knew I loved you before I knew I liked you. Know what I mean?”

 

“Maybe,” Sherlock leaned her head against my shoulder. “Tell me more.” 

 

“I mean. It took me a silly long time to understand that I wanted to.  _ Want  _ to, you know. Kiss you and hold you and see you naked and all that,” I said rather quickly. “It was so easy to know that I adore you and admire you and want to spend all my time with you for my whole whole life. I mean. How could I not? You’re  _ Sherlock. _ It’s just. Logical.” 

 

Sherlock laughed her sweet giggle right against my ear so that it tickled, “Please have me, John. Nothing would delight me more.” 

 

I kissed her hair, “Like you’re my Christmas present?”

 

Sherlock leaned forward suddenly and snatched a bit of ribbon from the coffee table where I’d left it laying earlier after opening my gifts. She tied it round her forehead, then turned to me and inclined as if to offer herself, “Exactly so. Merry Christmas, John.” 

 

I laughed and pulled loose the bow, then kissed her, “Thank you, Sherlock. Merry Christmas.” 


End file.
